


Visions on the Mists of the Soul

by sherlockian4evr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, John is a Mess, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2018-10-26 13:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10787334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sherlock has jumped from the roof of Barts, leaving a grieving John behind, but he's not alone for long. Soon John is kept company by his hallucinations in which Sherlock has come back to him.Beta read bySherlock1110.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Astrido](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrido/gifts).



John shrugged off the hand Greg had placed on his shoulder. It had been meant as a comforting gesture, but nothing could comfort the doctor anymore, not after watching his best friend jump to his death from the top of Barts. He'd answered all the questons that had been put to him, not by Lestrade, obviously, the DI was too close to the case, but by an officer John had only met once before. He was done here and just wanted to go home.

"Listen, John," Greg tried, "why don't you stay at mine?" He didn't want his friend to be alone. John looked entirely too shattered.

"I'm going back to Baker Street." The doctor didn't hear how stunned he sounded, shocked, broken. He wouldn't have cared if he had. He turned and walked away, leaving a worried DI behind him.

Greg raised a hand towards John. "Let me give you a ride!" The doctor ignored him and kept walking. "Call me, then. Anytime, day or night, alright?" When he didn't get a response to that either, he sighed. He didn't know what to do about John.

* * *

John stepped onto the pathway outside New Scotland Yard and immediately went to hail a cab. When one stopped for him, he got in, feeling numb, and gave the cabbie the address of the Baker Street flat. For a few minutes, the doctor looked out at the passing scenery. Everyone looked so calm and normal, like it was just any normal day.

"For them, it is," said a deep baritone voice from the opposite side of the backseat. "It's just another boring day like any other. Cash the paycheck, get the milk, rush around like their little lives matter..."

Head whipping around, John gaped. "Sherlock," he gasped. "You're not..."

The detective raised a finger to his lips. "Keep your voice down."

"But I saw you jump," John said quietly, urgently. It didn't even occur to him to wonder how the detective had come to be in the cab. "You have no idea what you did to me!" His left hand had formed a fist and he was near losing control of his anger.

The cabbie gave John an odd look. "You okay, sir?"

The answer was both 'yes' and 'no'. Sherlock was sitting in the cab with him when John had thought him dead, but the doctor still felt like an emotional wreck and he was angry. "We're fine," he managed to say in a somewhat calm voice.

The cabbie didn't look reassured. If anything, he looked more concerned.

"Just get us to Baker Street, yeah?" John looked back at Sherlock. "You have a lot of explaining to do when we get home. And make it good, or I'm going to punch you. Several times." He flexed his left hand a few times before laying it flat on his thigh.

Sherlock smiled thinly, sadly, then looked out the window. "I had my reasons for what I did."

Something about those words unsettled John and he gave his friend a closer look. He couldn't shake the feeling he was missing something and he didn't like it one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

After exiting the cab, John rushed to let them into 221. He glanced over his shoulder to reassure himself that Sherlock was there, but the detective had disappeared. It felt as though his heart had stopped, not seeing his friend behind him. Questioning if Sherlock had ever been there or if he had imagined him, the doctor let himself in and climbed the stairs slowly to their flat. Upon opening the door, John found his friend waiting in the living room. "Jesus!" he shouted, startled. "Don't do that to me. I thought I had imagined you."

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't be an idiot. I couldn't risk being seen. Not just yet. I came in through the back."

John didn't question his friend's statement. He was too glad to know he hadn't been delusional. "I'm just glad you're here." He crossed over to Sherlock and grasped his wrist, feeling for his pulse. It was there, strong and reassuring. The doctor let his hand fall away from his friend's wrist, chuckling self consciously. "Right. Tell me everything," he demanded as he sat down in his chair, not bothering to take his coat off.

Sherlock sat opposite him in his own chair, wrapping his Belstaff tightly around himself. "I can't, John. I'm sorry, not yet, anyway." He held up a hand to forestall the doctor's objections. "Please... It's complicated."

The sincerity in the detective's voice and the open look of pure distress that he displayed stopped John from objecting outright. "Right, then. But you'll tell me everything as soon as you can," he insisted.

"Yes, John. Everything. I swear," Sherlock promised.

John swallowed and nodded. He couldn't speak, suddenly, the emotions of the day having caught up with him. He felt his eyes begin to burn and, much to his embarrassment, he found himself sobbing, great racking sobs that shook his entire body. "Sorry, sorry. I just... You were dead, Sherlock. I saw you on the pavement and you didn't have a pulse..."

The detective got up immediately and closed the space between them, taking up John's hands in his own. "I'm here with you," Sherlock reassured him, though he said nothing more definite than that.

John managed to smile weakly at that. "I know. You can't do that to me again. You can't leave me, not like that. I... I would never survive it again." He extricated his left hand from Sherlock's grip and reached to rest his hand at his friend's nape. "I didn't know..." The doctor broke off, not certain of what he was trying to say, just knowing he had almost lost something precious. "I don't want to live without you."

* * *

Mycroft watched the footage from 221B, his mouth set in a grim frown. It was his second time to watch it through fully. John seemed to be having a conversation with someone who wasn't there. He even appeared to be interacting with said person physically. Mycroft knew the invisible person had to be some sort of vision of Sherlock.

The government official sighed. He had warned his brother that the doctor would take Sherlock's apparent suicide harder than he expected, but this... this went beyond even Mycroft's expectations. He couldn't tell Sherlock about this, not yet, but he would monitor the situation. If it deteriorated... well, that would be dealt with if it must.


	3. Chapter 3

It was well after midnight and John was actually ready to sleep. He knew that, if Sherlock hadn't been there, he would have sat up through the night, but that wasn't the case.

"I'm completely knackered, Sherlock. Today's been... well it's been a rough one. I'm turning in for the night." He stretched and yawned, then stood to head upstairs.

The detective stood as well, biting his lip. "John, I too should retire, but no one can know I'm alive. I can't sleep in my own room, the lights..." he let the sentence trail off.

Sherlock had slept on the sofa numerous times in the past, but it didn't occur to John that he might do so now. "I suppose you could sleep in my room with me if you like," he offered. "I won't bite. Promise." After seeing his friend apparently dead on the pathway earlier in the day, there was something appealing about the idea of having him near throughout the night. The doctor held his breath, waiting for a response.

"Thank you, John. I accept." He moved to follow the doctor who checked to make sure Mrs. Hudson was safe in her flat before ascending the stairs.

In John's room, the doctor stripped down to his vest and pants, unconcerned with modesty. The army had beaten that out of him long ago. As for Sherlock, he'd never had much sense of propriety. He too stripped, all the way down to his pants. He looked as if he would have taken those off too had he not noticed John was still wearing his.

They climbed into bed together, both of them looking up at the ceiling. The doctor couldn't bring himself to roll onto his side, to roll away from Sherlock. The memory of the day's events were to fresh to allow that. He thought his friend must be feeling something much the same. He reached over and turned off the light. "Night, Sherlock."

The detective's deep baritone answered back, "Night, John."

_John found himself standing on the pathway across from Barts, looking up at the familiar form of Sherlock standing on the rooftop ledge. He started to rush across the street, his mobile pressed to his ear, but his friends words coming to him over the phone stopped him._

The doctor tossed in his sleep, moaning.

_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move."_

_John held up a placating hand as he backed up, not wanting to push Sherlock to action. "All right."_

_Sherlock held out a hand as if reaching towards his friend. His voice cracked as he spoke, "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

In the bed, the doctor thrashed about, becoming tangled in his sheets.

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call – it’s, er... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?"_

_Shaking his head, John began to panic. "Leave a note when?"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

In his dream and in the real world, the doctor said, "No. Don’t."

_Sherlock dropped his phone which seemed to fall forever, then, in a long moment of horror, John screamed, "No. Sherlock!" That was when the detective fell._

John sat up in bed, the scream still on his lips. He was alone, so very alone, and then he wasn't. Sherlock was there, holding and rocking him, saying, "It was only a dream. I'm here, with you. I'm here. I'll never leave you." John clung to him like a life raft in the middle of the ocean.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, John woke alone. He leapt out of bed and threw on his dressing gown, then rushed down to the living room where he breathed easier when he found Sherlock there. The cutains were open, which made the doctor scowl. "If you're presence here is supposed to be a secret, you might want to keep these closed," he said as he walked over and drew the curtains shut. When he turned around, he had his hands on his hips. "And I don't understand that anyway. Why do you have to stay out of sight, to be dead?"

Sherlock, perched on his chair like a bird of prey, smiled. "You don't suppose Moriarty's schemes ended with me, do you John? I was entertainment, a distraction. He still has his hand in many illegal activities. With me supposedly dead, he will get careless and make mistakes. Mycroft will be able to track his activities easier and catch him with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak."

"So Mycroft knows, then," John said, a hint of resentment in his voice. "That explains how you pulled it off."

"No, he doesn't. And don't ask how I did it. I refuse to implicate those involved. Speaking of Mycroft, I'm rather surprised you haven't heard from him yet." The detective regarded John from over steepled fingers.

"Why? What about?"

"You know my brother. He can't resist sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong. He'll consider it his duty to see that you're alright."

"Ha! He can buggar off and go try to run someone else's life." The doctor crossed his arms and set his jaw petulantly.

At the door, Mrs. Hudson called, "Yoo hoo, John. The door's locked. Would you mind?"

John gave Sherlock a sharp look and the detective fled to his bedroom. He could hide safely in there now that it was daylight.

"One moment Mrs. Hudson," the doctor said as he stood and wrapped his dressing gown around him tightly, tying the sash. He crossed over to the door and opened it, letting in their landlady who was carrying a tray which held a light breakfast.

"I know you probably don't feel like eating dear," she said as she placed the tray down on the coffee table, "but you must keep up your strength." Mrs. Hudson looked at the tray a moment before bursting into tears, then she turned and buried her face against John's shoulder. "Oh, John. It's so horrible."

"I know, Mrs. Hudson," John agreed, hating himself for not calling Sherlock forth from the bedroom, but knowing he couldn't. "We're all going to miss him." The doctor felt choked up. If he had thought about it, he would have wondered how he would pretend to be grieving his not dead friend, but with Mrs. Hudson now crying in his arms, he felt an inexplicable despair. It was as if part of him still believed Sherlock was dead, as ridiculous as that was. He supposed the feeling would go away with time. At least, he hoped it would.

Their landlady drew away. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to blubber like that. His death is the hardest on you, after all." She patted his cheek, then drew her hand back. "If you need anything, anything at all, I'll be right downstairs." She left the flat, wiping away her tears with the corner of her apron as she went.


	5. Chapter 5

John stood staring at the tray Mrs. Hudson had left, feeling a bit nauseated. He knew Sherlock was just in the other room, but their landlady's tears had disturbed him. He could almost see Sherlock's apparently broken body laying on the pathway and he could feel himself starting to fall into a panic attack.

"Sherlock," he tried to call out, but it was barely more than a whisper. "Sherlock!" he tried again, this time loud enough to be heard in the other room.

The detective emerged, rushing to John's side. "I'm right here," he said in a reassuring tone, apparently having noted the distress in the doctor's voice. "What did Mrs. Hudson say to upset you?"

John shook his head, unable to speak. It hadn't been what she had said. It had been the sheer grief in her eyes, the certainty that she had lost someone she had loved and the way she had looked at him... as if she thought his entire world had come to an end. If Sherlock had really died, she would have been right. She would have been right. What did that mean?

John looked at Sherlock, his mad, brilliant, beautiful friend, his saviour, the reason he hadn't died in that bedsit by his own hand. It felt like a punch in the gut, the realisation that came over him: he was in love with Sherlock and had been for a long time. He shook his head, knowing why he had hidden that fact from himself: Sherlock wouldn't welcome such a revelation, he was married to his work. Nothing about that had changed, despite Moriarty. "I need to go for a walk," John said in a shaky voice. Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed his coat and fled the flat, leaving it empty behind him.

* * *

John walked and walked and walked, unable to put his thoughts and feelings in any kind of order. He was only certain of two things: 1) he loved Sherlock Holmes and 2) the object of his affection could never be told.

After hours of wandering, the doctor ended up across the street from Barts in the exact spot he had been when he first saw Sherlock standing on the rooftop. He made his way across the street to stand where his friend's 'body' had lain and stared down at it. "How did you do it?" he asked, speaking out loud without realising it. "How are you alive?" He looked up to see how far Sherlock had fallen and gave a shudder. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the black sedan that had pulled up next to him at first. When he did, he groaned and turned towards it. The back door opened and he got in.

Mycroft handed the doctor a glass of rum. "You've been walking for quite some time, Doctor Watson. You must be tired."

"What's this?" John asked, raising his glass. "Are you hoping I won't punch you if my hand is full."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Mycroft said with a thin smile. "How are you faring?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"You were my brother's closest friend. What happened... I regret it greatly. He wouldn't want you to suffer unduly at his death." Mycroft watched John closely. He wondered how deep seated his delusions were and just what it would take to shake them.

"You regret... Suffer unduly... Stop the sodding car, Mycroft before I really do punch you. You haven't the first clue what Sherlock really wants." John waited until the car had almost stopped, shoved the drink at Mycroft, then opened the door and got out. "Stay out of our... my life, Mycroft," he told the government official, then he stormed off.

Mycroft took out his mobile and pulled up the contact listed only as Concorde. His thumb hovered over it in indescision for several long seconds before he put his phone away. Things hadn't got that dire yet.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few days passed in relative quietude. John and Sherlock kept to the flat and avoided talking about anything of import, specifically the why and how of the fall and the detective's continued commitment to hiding. John resolutley turned all visitors away with the exception of Mrs. Hudson, though she had to knock to gain entrance to the flat now as they always kept the doors locked. He even refused to answer his phone.

John and Sherlock shared the sofa as they watched crap telly. Every time Sherlock insulted it, the doctor smiled, content. When Mrs. Hudson's knock came at the door, John wasn't too surprised, considering the time. She had been making regular appearances with food every day around lunch time. He waited for Sherlock to hide himself away in his bedroom, then he unlocked the door and let her in. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

Their landlady bustled in with the predictable tray of food and tea, carrying it through and setting it on the kitchen table. "Hello, John, dear," She said as she turned around. She was wringing her hands and the doctor could tell she had something on her mind.

"Whatever it is, go ahead and say it," John told her, trying not to sound to harsh.

"It's just the way you've locked yourself away in here, away from everyone who cares about you. It's not healthy." Mrs. Hudson took a few steps towards him, her hand held out before her. "You need your friends about you now, John, for support."

He knew she meant well, so resisted the urge to snap at her. "I know you mean well. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, ushering her towards the door.

"At least think about it. With the funeral coming up..."

Mrs. Hudson's words were lost to John as he suddenly pictured a casket with Sherlock inside, cold and dead, hidden away from the world. He shook his head to dispel the vision, even as the wrongness of it struck him. There couldn't be a body inside the casket because there was no body, but that didn't make sense. There would have to be a body. Mycroft wouldn't bury an empty box, he would have insisted on seeing his brother's body, but Sherlock had said his brother didn't know about the deception. The doctor brought his hands up to clasp at his head, suddenly not feeling well as the world spun out of control around him.

Mrs. Hudson looked alarm at the change in John. "John, are you alright?"

He looked at her, trying to focus, but his gaze was drawn to Sherlock who was standing behind her, his finger pressed to his lips in a shushing gesture. The doctor closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the detective was gone. He looked about wildly, only to find Sherlock sat in his leather chair. A moment later, the detective was stood by the kitchen table.

John pushed past Mrs. Hudson and fled the flat, running down the stairs and out onto the street. He kept running, aimlessly, not knowing where he was going and unable to make sense of his thoughts, only trying to escape them. He ran and ran and didn't stop running until he had reached the heart of Regent's Park.

The doctor was too distraught to notice how empty the park was in his immediate area. He stood there, his head bowed and his left hand clenched into a fist. He stood there for over fifteen minutes, thinking.

"Doctor Watson," a voice said off to his left. When John finally turned to look in that direction, he felt at stab as a needle was jabbed into the right side if his neck.

Two men, dressed as paramedics, caught him. Soon, a third rolled a stretched over from where it had been hidden. As soon as John had been loaded onto it and strapped down, they headed towards the ambulance that awaited at the edge of the park.

"The subject has been aquired," one of the men said into a wireless headset as they loaded John into the waiting ambulance.

Across London, Mycroft took out his phone and sent a text to Concorde:

_Your favourite item has been broken. Meet at contingency location using predetermined timing to discuss repairs. Bringing item with me._

After several minutes, he received the reply:

_You were supposed to keep it safe. Will meet you as agreed. DO NOT let anything else happen to it._

Mycroft read the text and shook his head. "You're the one that broke him, brother mine. It will be up to you to put him back together."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect my muse to take me here. My apologies in advance. My beta has already had a go at me for ending the chapter where I have.

Mycroft had been called as soon as John started to rouse. Since then, he had watched him through the one way mirror, noting how the doctor reacted to waking up alone in the, to all appearances average, hotel room.

John had woken, obviously still groggy, then looked around him for something... someone. He had appeared simultaneously relieved and worried when he looked at the empty spot next to him on the bed. Next, the doctor had gone through the motions of rousing someone, then leaned back on an elbow in obvious relief. "Thank God, Sherlock. You had me worried. I thought they had given you too much. Where did they get you?" There was a moment of silence, then nothing. "I'm sorry. I must have done something to give away that you were still alive." John got off the bed as if following someone. "I haven't had time to check for a way out. I just woke up myself." He staggered sideways and grabbed onto the back of a chair for support.

Mycroft looked up when the door opened to the observation room to see his brother enter. Sherlock looked particularly haggard and even paler than normal. When the door had been closed, the government official gestured towards the one way mirror. "I warned you about this Sherlock."

"Don't give me that. Even you didn't predict this exact scenario." Sherlock watched, pained, as his best friend apparently talked to an invisible Sherlock about picking the lock on the door. "Is he like this all the time? Does he ever seem to remember that I'm dead?" Guilt and sadness weighed heavy inside him, twisting his internal organs in knots.

"Sometimes he reacts strangely, as if the story he's made up for himself doesn't sit right." Mycroft shrugged, then turned to face Sherlock. "He won't be able to keep the illusuion up for much longer. I'm afraid that he might act... precipitously when his illusion fails him. That would be most unfortunate." He had chosen his words carefully so as to provoke his brother to action.

"No. That is unacceptable." Sherlock started pacing. "I'll reveal myself. I'll go in there and tell him everything. I'll..."

"Sherlock!" the government official snapped, breaking into his brothers rising mania. "What about Jim's network? What about the orders to kill John and the others if you prove not to be quite so dead as it's currently believed you are?"

"You do it!" Sherlock hissed. "Take down the network. You wanted me to let you. I'll stay undercover with John." At his brother's skeptical look, the detective insisted, "I'll stay with him as long as it takes... wherever he needs to be. Here, a safehouse, or..." He couldn't bring himself to say it, but he knew John might not ever be the same again. "I'll stay with him anywhere."

The doctor had gone over to the kettle and looked at it suspiciously. "Do you think it's safe to use? There's even tea. That doesn't make sense, does it, Sherlock? Why would our kidnappers provide tea." He looked over at the mirror. "Bloody hell. Mycroft! You figured it out, didn't you. Fine. He's alive. Now let us out of here!!" He threw the kettle at the mirror, but it just bounced off.

Both brothers failed to flinch.

Sherlock grinned with pride. "Good job, John. You're still thinking." He gave his brother a no nonsense look. "I'd say I'm needed in there immediately."

"He's going to be furious with you," Mycroft cautioned. That kettle could be aimed at your head next."

"No matter what he does, neither you nor your people are to interfere," Sherlock insisted. "A certain amount of anger and even violence is deserved, don't you think? Besides, John would never really hurt me. At least, not permanently." With that, the detective left a worried brother behind in the observation room.


	8. Chapter 8

At the sound of someone at the locked door, John turned and caught Sherlock's eye. "Mycroft," they said together. John stopped fiddling with the kettle and stepped to his friend's side so they could present a united front against the interfering government official.

The person who stepped through the door wasn't Mycroft.

"What the fuck?" John asked in a bemused tone. The person standing across the room from them looked just like his friend. "Seriously, Sherlock. What is Mycroft playing at?" He turned and looked at his friend questioningly, but the detective standing by his side didn't respond, just looked at him sadly.

Across the room, the imposter took a step closer to John. "It's me, John. Here. In front of you." He held out a hand towards the doctor, gesturing to the space next to John where Sherlock stood. "That's merely a projection your mind has created. A hallucination. Can you understand that?"

John shook his head. "No. I don't know who you are or who's behind this, but you're not Sherlock." He turned slightly and addressed the man beside him. "We were wrong, then. It wasn't Mycroft who kidnapped us." At his friend's continued silence, John grew frustrated. His left hand curled into a fist and he shifted his weight off his right leg. "Say something. Tell this... imposter what to do with himself."

"He can't," the man across the room said in a gentle tone. "Don't just see me. Observe." He took another step closer, his hand still outstretched. "What has it told you?" He asked nodding towards where Sherlock stood. "Whatever it was, it can't have answered your questions. Not adequately. I can."

John shook his head as a buzzing began in his ears and he felt dizzy. His captors must have drugged him again, hoping to make him more suggestible. "No!" John stepped between Sherlock and the imposter. "Shut up!"

The man responded by closing the space between himself and John. Just as he was about to place his hand on John's shoulder, the doctor drew back and punched him, sending him sprawling.

John froze the moment he saw the bloom of blood across the fallen man's cheek. In that moment of inaction, the man held out a hand towards the large mirror on the wall and shouted out, "Mycroft, wait! Don't do anything."

The doctor's legs gave out under him and he sank to the floor. The entire time, his eyes were locked on the smear of blood across a sharp cheekbone. "Blood. There was so much of it. It was everywhere," he said, his voice wavering. "So much. You died and they wouldn't let me... So much blood and you didn't have a pulse." John's fist hit the floor as he cried out, the sound incoherent. "You died! You killed yourself in front of me, you bastard! And now you're dead!" He started laughing and it sounded horrible, threaded through as it was with his sobs. "You're dead and I can't let you go. I'm a fucking mental case." His laughs grew more hysterical. "And one of you wasn't enough. I had to imagine two of you. Jesus."

John felt strong arms surround him and pull him into an embrace. Soon, a warm body started rocking him and making soothing sounds. "John. Oh, John, what have I done to you?" the all too familiar baritone voice asked. The doctor didn't have the strength to pull away from what he knew to be a hallucination. If he was insane, then he might as well get some comfort from it after all.

"You're wrong. You only imagined one of us. I can prove it, John. I can explain things he never could. Please. Let me," the voice said.

This time the doctor's laugh was quieter. He felt so tired, suddenly. What did it matter? Without pulling away, he sighed, then said, "Yeah, alright. Tell me."

Sherlock held John tight in his arms where they sat together on the floor. He was about to tell the doctor everything when the door to the room opened and Mycroft entered. "I told you to stay out if this," Sherlock hissed.

"My apologies, brother mine, but I believe my presence may serve better than any explanation you might have to offer." He shifted his gaze to John. "Doctor Watson, I am sorry to intrude at such a time, but I believe I can clear things up for you."

The doctor looked up at Mycroft with weary eyes. "Fuck off, Mycroft. Nothing can help. Sherlock's dead."

"Doctor Watson. John." Mycroft stepped over to the doctor and crouched down in front of him. "If I'm correct, no one ever saw the Sherlock you hallucinated." He reached out and out his hand on his brother's arm. "I see him. He's right here with us. He's alive, John."

The doctor's eyes widened as he looked where Mycroft's hand rested on Sherlock's arm. Slowly, he moved his gaze up to the detective's eyes. "It really is you this time?"

The detective gave him a watery eyed smile. "Obviously."

At that, John reached up and touched Sherlock's cheek. When his fingers met a single fallen tear, the doctor let out a choked sob. He let himself crumble into Sherlock's embrace again, not noticing when Mycroft rose and quietly left the room.


	9. Chapter 9

"So that's why you did it," John said, scrubbing his face with his hands. It made a horrible kind of sense. He couldn't imagine how Sherlock had felt being so completely trapped.

John and Sherlock were no longer huddled on the floor. They had moved to the chairs and now sat with their knees touching. The doctor needed the close proximity to feel secure.

John's left hand trembled. "Jesus. But why didn't you tell me?" He was too emotionally drained to be truly angry, but he still had to know. He could have helped, somehow, and he would have been spared the pain of thinking Sherlock had killed himself.

"I had planned to tell you originally, but things went pear shaped." Sherlock drew his legs up, folding his knees to his chest. "There were too many variables. I couldn't know that something wouldn't go wrong. If it did and I died... I thought it better not to give you false hope." He bit his lip, then continued. "You were never meant to be there when I jumped. You were supposed to be with Mrs. Hudson, but I misjudged the timing. That wasn't the only mistake I made. Once you saw me jump, I thought it best to let you continue thinking I was dead. It was my intention to dismantle Moriarty's network and, again, there was no guarantee I would survive. I reasoned it would be cruel to tell you I was alive only for you to receive news at a later date that I had been killed." He reached for and took John's hand. "I was wrong. I should have told you immediately."

The doctor let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. "I just want to go home," he said in a voice that sounded bone weary. He opened his eyes that were full of unshed tears. "Please." Once they were away from that place, he would surely be able to think properly again.

Lunging forward from his chair, Sherlock knelt before the doctor. "John, I'm sorry, but we can't. Well, I can't. It would put you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson at risk." He hesitated. "You can go back by yourself, if that's what you want." It was the last thing the detective wanted. Besides, he wasn't certain John should be left to his own devices.

"No!" the doctor shouted. "No. I'm not going anywhere without you." He had leant forward and gripped Sherlock's arm. If he let his friend out of his sight, he was afraid he might never see him again and he cared too much for him to risk that.

The detective breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright. We stay together, then." He made himself smile. "I'm sure we won't have to stay in hiding for long. Mycroft's people are going after Moriarty's network." Sherlock knew he was lying. Without him, it would take twice as long to dismantle the network, but he wasn't risking John's sanity, not again. He'd never risk John in any way again.

John still hadn't let go of Sherlock's arm. "Get us out of here." He knew Mycroft had to be watching and there were things he needed to say to his friend, things that weren't any of the government official's business. That, and the room felt oppressive, somehow, filled with dark emotions. He needed to get away from it.

"Mycroft, arrange for a safe house," Sherlock called out, knowing his brother would hear. He placed his hand on John's knee. "It's going to be alright. I promise." It would be, if it took him the rest of his life to make it happen. He'd make everything up to John, somehow.


	10. Chapter 10

It was mere hours later that John and Sherlock found themselves at a safe house. Mycroft had already had it prepared ahead of time knowing it would be needed. He arrived at the house in a seperate car from the other two men. He had wanted to give the doctor and his brother time to themselves. He got out of his car at the same time John and his brother got out of theirs, quickly closing the distance between them. "We had best get inside quickly," Mycroft said before leading the way into the house. They were stopped briefly at the door, the government official's credentials checked, then allowed entrance.

John didn't particularly want to spend more time in Mycroft's presence, not knowing the elder Holmes had witnessed his complete mental breakdown. Sherlock's reassuring hand on his arm was all that let him keep it together and face the prospect with any amount of decorum.

Once inside, they made their way to the living room. Tea had just been poured for them by someone who had already disappeared from the room. John picked up a cup gratefully as holding it gave his hands something to do, then he took a seat. Sherlock sat in the chair nearest him. Mycroft sat across from them both, crossing his legs and looking even more dour than normal which was saying a lot.

The detective frowned at John, worried about his stability, but decisions had to be made and that meant their current situation had to be discussed. He cleared his throat. "I'm sure you've fully evaluated the situation, Mycroft. What are our options?" he asked for John's benefit.

Heaving a great sigh, Mycroft uncrossed his legs and leant forward. "The first, optimal option is one that you've already rejected."

"I haven't changed my mind about that," Sherlock snapped. The look he shot his brother was frost. "Next."

"No. Wait." John held up a hand. "If it's the best option, then why not take it?"

"Because I would have to leave you behind. Again." Sherlock shook his head emphatically. "I refuse to do that for any reason."

"What my brother is failing to mention," Mycroft said cooly, "is that this option would no doubt resolve the situation, I don't exaggerate when I say it, years faster."

John gaped at Mycroft, then he turned his attention to his friend. "Sherlock...."

"Don't. I've given my answer and it's final." The detective glared at Mycroft. "I'll help in every way I can as long as I'm not separated from John again. I was a fool to leave him behind in the first place. I should have told him..." Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling the unaccustomed bit of guilt. "Don't push me on this, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes made a moue of distaste at the excessive, in his opinion, show of emotion, then he nodded. "On to the second option, then." He transferred his gaze to John. "In the second option, we provide an excuse for your disappearance." Mycroft cleared his throat delicately. "In light of your recent... erratic behaviour, the obvious solution is to spread the rumour that you have been sectioned."

John shifted uncomfortably, glancing sideways at Sherlock. He couldn't argue with Mycroft, but the entire situation was disconcerting. "Won't these people go looking to see if that's true."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Leave that to me. My people will provide all the evidence that is necessary. This will allow you to stay here with Sherlock until the matter is resolved whilst ensuring the safety of Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Once Moriarty's network has been dismantled, I will, of course see to it that both your reputations are restored. It will be necessary that you return together as heroes of the realm." He darted a look at his brother. "Not a word, Sherlock. You will agree to it for John's sake."

The detective looked irritated, but Mycroft was correct. He'd agree to anything that would, in the end, help John.

Their discussion continued for hours until, finally, the government official left, the second option having been chosen and other plans made. After that, it was just John and Sherlock. They were truly alone together for the first time since their reunion, no one way mirrors with its observers or drivers to overhear them. The air suddenly went thick as they simply stood there staring at one another.


	11. Chapter 11

John found himself staring at Sherlock and not wanting to look away lest he disappear, but he knew that was ridiculous. This was the real Sherlock. He'd have to let him out of his sight eventually and trust that when he saw him again, he wouldn't simply be a vapour of his mind. He looked around nervously for something to do, anything that would keep him busy, but there was nothing.

Stepping close to him, Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. For everything. I should have told you that before now." There weren't words enough to tell his friend how much he regretted what he had put him through, how he had broken him. Nothing he could say could ever erase what he had done to John.

The doctor sat down without replying. He found himself shaking his head. "It's fine." The words he had just said seemed ridiculous, but what else could he say? Had Sherlock done anything else, he and two other people would be dead. He suddenly had a vision of Mrs. Hudson with a bullet wound between her eyes and felt ill. "It really is fine," he said and this time it sounded more heartfelt. "Lets leave it. Please." The past was the past. John didn't want to dwell on it anymore.

It didn't seem right to Sherlock to simply drop the subject, but he wasn't going to push John about it. Besides, he already felt the itch to get to work helping Mycroft's team track down the remaining members of Moriarty's network, so he settled himself on the sofa and opened the secure laptop his brother had provided. The detective glanced at John. Hopefully his friend would start feeling more like himself soon and would be able to help. No doubt matters would progress faster with his conductor of light at his side as an active participant in the hunt, even if they were forced to work from the confines of the safe house.

Seeing Sherlock's attention rivited by whatever he had found on the laptop felt comforting. _This_ Sherlock had an intensity about him that John's hallucination had never had. It felt comfortable, right, to see him sitting there with his hands folded in a prayerful position just below his lips as he thought.

The doctor's stomach rumbled and he realised he hadn't eaten that day. It was likely Sherlock hadn't either. Well, there had been the biscuits with their tea, but that hardly counted as real food. He decided to find them something to eat. That was a reassuringly familiar task.

The kitchen was fully stocked, both with real food and with the dubious junk that Sherlock tended to eat in lieu of said food. John didn't feel like he was good for much at the moment, but he could at least make sure his friend ate something decent. Now that he thought about it, the detective looked thinner than he had before the fa... than he had _before_.

The doctor gathered some ingredients from the fridge and the cupboards and set about preparing a casserole. It was simple and he'd probably be able to get Sherlock to eat some of it without too much protest. As he straightened up from putting it in the oven, he found himself looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. Only it wasn't Sherlock. It was the old vision that John had conjured up for himself.

Deeply unsettled, the doctor froze. The longer he looked at the apparition, the less unsettled he felt. How could he have ever mistaken _that_ for his friend. The differences were obvious. There simply wasn't enough life in the vision. "Go away!" he barked. "I don't need you anymore."

Sherlock looked up at his friend's shout, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. John's words could only mean one thing... his hallucination was back. He leapt to his feet and rushed into the kitchen.

John rounded on Sherlock. The instant he saw him, he felt relief. _This_ was the real Sherlock, his true friend. He could tell the difference. He really could.

"John..."

"I'm fine. Really." The doctor shrugged. "There was one too many of you, but I seem to be able to tell the difference now. That's a good thing. Right?" He'd rather not have to deal with the hallucination at all, but he knew all too well that you didn't always get what you wanted.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock didn't like seeing John distressed. The fact that his friend had just seen another hallucination was worrying as well. He wanted to pull John to him and hold him, to reassure him that it was all fine, that his friend simply needed time to heal. He knew he daren't though. John had let him hold him back at the government facility, but that had been a time of extreme emotional upset. He was sure such actions wouldn't be welcome now. "How can you tell the difference?" the detective asked instead.

John looked down at his toes, feeling awkward and embarrassed. "The hallucination seemed flat." He looked back up at his friend. "It didn't look at me like you do, you know, all observing like." He shrugged. "I can't believe I ever thought that was you." He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch Sherlock. All he wanted to do was hold onto him and never let go.

The proper response eluded the detective. He cast around for something to get John's mind off of things. "I could use your assistance if you're amenable," he suggested.

The doctor was grateful for the change of subject. "I don't know what I can do. I can't help you with the computer stuff." He felt completely useless.

"No, but you can help with the files." There were a great number of them stacked on the coffee table. "Start reading them and get up to speed. I'll be wanting your opinion."

"Um... okay." John thought it would be pointless, but at least it would keep him occupied. He went into the living room and picked up a file, then sat down on the cream coloured sofa to read it. When he opened the file, he saw the surveillance photo of a vaguely familiar looking man and the name Sebastian Moran. The man had a military backgound and training as a sniper. He had been dishonourably discharged for a host of reasons. According to the dossier, Moran had started working for Moriarty almost immediately after returning to England. It was what he read next that made the doctor pause. Moran had been assigned to kill him if Sherlock hadn't jumped of Barts. "Jesus," he breathed, looking at the photo once again. He knew he'd seen Moran on more than one occasion.

Sherlock glanced at John, immediately deducing which file he had been reading. "He's my top priority. I suspect he's been watching you, looking for signs that I wasn't as dead as was thought."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. I think I've seen him around Baker Street and near the clinic." He let out a shaky breath. "He could have killed me anytime. He had lots of opportunity."

That pronouncement made Sherlock’s blood run cold. He closed his eyes and tried to shake the image of a bullet shooting through John's head. His friend might be anything but alright, but he was alive. John was alive. He could fix the doctor, he was certain. The guilt Sherlock had been feeling was still there, but it was tempered by the knowledge of what could have been.

The doctor seemed enthralled by the photograph. Sherlock stood and, crossing the room to stand near John, gently took the file from his hands and tossed it on the coffee table. "He can't reach you here. You're safe. With the story Mycroft is circulating, so are Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"Right." John wanted nothing more than to go for a walk and think things through, but that was impossible as things stood. Being in the safe house felt akin to being under house arrest. They couldn't show their faces outside. He glanced at the file. "Do you know who was assigned to kill Mrs. Hudson or Greg?" John asked.

"Mrs. Hudson, no. As for Lestrade, it had to be someone at the Yard, someone in relatively close proximity to him."

John gave a curt nod. "Forget Moran for now. Find the other assassins instead. If something was to happen to Greg or Mrs. Hudson... No. Just no. I won't survive the guilt if that happens."

"But, John..."

"No, Sherlock. Like you said, I'm safe. They're really not, despite Mycroft's plan." John got a pleading look on his face. "Do it for me."

The detective visibly wilted. He couldn't say no to John. "Alright. I'll start with them."  
John nodded, satisfied.


	13. Chapter 13

Things were quite for the next few days. Almost too quiet. Sherlock continued his research and cyber hacking and spent hours in his mind palace. John did whatever he could to help which he felt wasn’t much.

Mainly, he kept his friend fed and forced him to get a few hours sleep every now and then. The rest of the time, he was on his own. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the spectre of Sherlock didn’t keep appearing, conjured by his brain. Sometimes it would stand just behind Sherlock as if reading over his shoulder. At other times, it would simply stand a few feet away from the doctor and stare at him. It never spoke anymore, a fact for which John was profoundly grateful. Still he wished it would go away all together.

The doctor was in the middle of fixing lunch when Sherlock’s mobile went flying across the living room of the safe house. Calmly, John turned off the hob and ventured into the living room to see what had his friend in such a state. “Sherlock?” he asked cautiously.

“Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have received letters,” Sherlock said, his hands on his hips and his head hanging. “And there was one in our flat addressed to you.” He tone carried a thread of underlying fury.

“And...” John prompted.

“All three of them read simply ‘I. O. U.'" Sherlock brought his hands to his hair and pulled on his curls. “We've been found out. I don’t know how, but Mycroft has clearly messed up.”

“I don’t understand.” What was the significance of the letters? And what was meant by the I. O. U.s?

“It’s what Moriarty told me. He said he owed me a burn, then he left me three I. O. U. Messages around London. One for each of you.” Sherlock started pacing, then he went to retrieve his phone and called Mycroft. “Get them someplace safe,” was the first thing he said. “And Lestrade’s family as well. You had best include his ex wife.” There was a pause. “I know he won’t like it, but I don’t care. Make it happen Mycroft.” With that, he hung up.

John started as Sherlock, in a rare show of explosive emotion, kicked the bin by the desk. The detective leaned heavily on said desk, his head hanging between his arms. “This whole thing is being coordinated by someone.”

The doctor had a sinking feeling he knew who Sherlock meant. “Moran?”

“Yes. So much for leaving him until last.” Sherlock stood up and straightened his jacket. He needed to be out there where he could move freely about. He would be so much more effective that way, but he couldn’t leave John behind and he wouldn’t put him at risk, not after everything he had done to protect him.

“If they know you’re alive, what’s the point of remaining here?” John asked.

The detective could hardly tell him the truth, that it was for John's safety. “I’m still wanted for the murder of Moriarty, if you recall.” It was a plausible excuse and had the advantage of being true.

“You're about to be cleared any day. Mycroft told me so. He's worked closely with Lestrade on it for quite some time.”

Sherlock cursed his brother silently for his efficiency. “Still...”

“It’s me, isn’t it?” John said, getting up in Sherlock’s space. “You know I’m cracked and I’m a liability. You’re afraid to let me back out in the real world.”

“No. No. Just, no.” Sherlock grasped John's upper arms. “I can’t risk you. Don’t you see? I jumped off Barts to save you. I can’t lose you now. Moran is still out there!” He wanted to hug the doctor to him, but restrained himself. “I can’t.”

“You can’t make my decisions for me,” John said, pulling out of his grasp. “Not unless you intend to have me sectioned.”

Sherlock looked as if he had been stricken. “John, no! I’d never...” But the doctor had retreated to his room and slammed the door shut.


	14. Chapter 14

“Oh, shut up,” John told the vision of Sherlock that lurked in his room. He didn’t need to, of course the spectre never spoke, not now that the real Sherlock had returned.

The doctor paced by his bed. They needed to get out of this place. His friend needed to be out there doing what Sherlock did best. He tried to think what the detective's other objections might be besides John's current mental state. Maybe there were legitimate concerns. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade’s safety came immediately to mind, but they were already in danger. Wasn’t it better to see to their safety and get on with the investigation?

The more John thought about it, the more frustrated and angry he became. Fuck this, he thought. Fuck the entire situation.

Under the watchful eye of his oft present vision, John took out his mobile. Well, it wasn’t actually his. His had been taken when he had been kidnapped yet again by Mycroft. This phone had levels of security built in the he couldn’t begin to imagine. The doctor selected one of the three names in his contact list and placed a call.

The moment Mycroft answered, John started in. “Get us out of here. I don’t care what it takes. Sherlock’s only staying here because he thinks he has to protect me. I may be... broken, but I’m not that broken. I can tell the difference between visions and reality.”

“John...”

“No, Mycroft. Sherlock needs to be out there, hunting down Moran, not here going stir crazy chasing minor leads over the internet. You know it and I know it.”

The doctor heard Mycroft let out a long sigh. “I do not dispute your analysis of the situation. With Moran and his people knowing that Sherlock is alive, it serves no purpose for him to remain in hiding. However, you know how stubborn he can be.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor Watson. That is why you will wait until my brother finally succumbs to sleep, sneak out of the house, and allow Anthea, who will be waiting outside, to take you back to Baker Street. My brother will undoubtedly be furious with me, but he will follow.”

The doctor let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Fine, but I want my SIG back. I can’t protect Sherlock otherwise.”

“Do you really think that’s prudent given the circumstances?”

“Listen, Mycroft, I’ve never hallucinated anyone but him and I’m not about to start now. Bring me my SIG.”

“Very well, John. Anthea will provide you with your gun. Don’t make me regret it.” With that, the government official rang off.

The doctor stared at his phone for a few moments, hardly believing it had been so easy. He had a feeling Mycroft had been waiting for his call and just what did that say? He shook his head at the machinations of Mycroft Holmes.

John threw himself down on his bed. He couldn’t go back into the living room. Not yet. Sherlock would know within moments that he had talked to Mycroft and would soon deduce why. He’d have to bide his time. It should be safe enough to venture out at three in the morning to meet Anthea.

The doctor looked at the silent vision of Sherlock that had reclined on the bed. “If only the real you could be more reasonable,” John complained. “I’m not saying that he’s completely wrong. I mean, look at you. You’re still here. But I can tell what’s real and what’s not. I’m not completely insane and I’m not useless. He needs to be out there and I need to be with him.”

Pale grey eyes gazed back at him, not showing any apparent emotion.

John sighed and turned away from the silent spectre. He picked up the book he had been reading, hoping to pass the time until the real Sherlock fell asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

When the safe house had grown eerily quiet, John ventured forth from his room. There was no sign of Sherlock who had finally surrendered to the necessity of getting at least a couple of hours sleep. Even his great mind required that much.

The doctor moved silently through the house and out the front door, the alarm on which had been disabled by Mycroft’s people the moment they saw John moving towards it on the surveillance cameras.

Once outside, John spotted a black sedan waiting for him at the edge of the road. He crossed over to it and got into the back seat, closing the door quietly before the car pulled away from the kerb. “Anthea,” he said with a curt nod. She didn’t say anything, merely handed him his gun. He checked it over, noting that it was fully loaded, then tucked it into his waistband.

John turned and looked out the window into the darkness. He could see Sherlock’s reflection, or rather a vision of it, in the smooth glass. For the first time in quite a while, he really let himself look at it. Everything about his vision was perfect, from the ebony curls to the ever changing colour of its eyes. John could have let himself stare at its cupid's bow lips for hours or he could have simply enjoyed the sharp, fine lines it cut in its perfectly imitated bespoke suit. He didn’t want that, though. He wanted the real thing, the man whose emotions ran deep despite his self applied label of sociopath

The doctor shook his head, banishing the vision from his sight. Now wasn’t the time to think about the things he wanted from Sherlock. He needed to push that aside and concentrate on the here and now. He’d wait for his friend at Baker Street and together they'd defeat Moran.

When the car stopped at 221, John got out and didn’t look back. Soon he was inside and settled in his chair to wait. The minutes ticked by slowly as night changed to dawn and still he waited. Finally, his phone rang. He answered it calmly. “Sherlock.”

“John, you idiot. What have you done?” Sherlock asked, his voice near panic. “You’re meant to be here with me. Safe.”

“And you’re meant to be taking down Moran and the rest of Moriarty's network. You can’t do that hiding away with me. I’m waiting for you,” John told him, his voice firm. “Come home. It’s time we stop hiding.”

“John-"

“Come home, Sherlock.” John rang off and shoved his phone in his pocket, ignoring the subsequent calls and message pings. If Sherlock wanted to talk to him, he would have to come to the flat. It was that simple.

Later, the front door to 221 opened and closed. The sound of footsteps travelled up the stairwell and to John's ears. The doctor frowned. It had only been 15 minutes since Sherlock had called. He couldn’t possibly be here already. John quietly slipped his gun out and aimed it at the door, his hand steady.

A dark haired man entered the flat and stopped just inside the door, appearing completely unaffected by the gun that was aimed at him. “Good morning, Doctor Watson,” Moran greeted him, his face placid. “We have so much to talk about.”

“We really don’t.” John’s finger tightened on the trigger marginally.

“I’m afraid that we do.”

John's phone pinged indicating an incoming messages.

“Go ahead,” Moran said, gesturing towards the doctor’s pocket. “I don’t mind.”

With an uneasy feeling, John slid out his phone and opened the message. There was a photo attached of Sherlock. His eyes were closed and blood had dried at his temple where he had been struck. “Just so you know, if he’s dead, I’ll kill you,” the doctor growled.

“I’m not a fool. He’s alive. And he will remain that way... if we can reach an agreement.” Moran crossed the room and sat in Sherlock’s chair. “I need your help... with Mycroft Holmes.”


	16. Chapter 16

Sebastian Moran sighed heavily. “Put down the gun, Doctor Watson and have a seat. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He looked at John patiently, as if he wasn’t concerned at all about the gun.

Reluctantly, John sat and rested his SIG on his thigh, his right hand atop it. That was the only concession he made about the gun. “Okay, talk, but first tell me how you managed to capture Sherlock.” He focussed on his unwanted guest, firmly ignoring the vision of Sherlock standing behind Moran. He didn’t have time or patience for the distraction. 

“Even Mycroft Holmes' men have their price. I simply bought off the chauffeur.” Sebastian laughed. “I assure you, your friend is safe. Mr. Holmes' men know how to take a man down without leaving him concussed.”

The doctor breathed the slightest bit easier, but he wouldn’t be happy until he could examine Sherlock himself. “Alright. What do you want from Mycroft and what makes you think he would listen to me?”

“Oh, he’ll listen. Especially if he wants to see his brother alive again. What I want... It’s not that much really. Let me explain.” Moran crossed his legs and made himself comfortable in the detective’s chair. “First, you must understand, those IOU letters were not from me.”

John looked at him sceptically. “Oh. Really? You expect me to believe that? Why don’t you pull the other one?”

“I know. I know. Dear Jim had ordered me to take vengeance in his name if Sherlock should somehow escape his trap, but look, I’m a businessman. I had no interest in drawing the attention of Mycroft Holmes. Unfortunately, one of my associates took the task upon himself.” Sebastian drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, aggitated. “I thought about eliminating him myself, but I’d rather reserve that pleasure for Mr. Holmes.”

John waved his left hand in the before resting it against his jaw. “And you think that’s going to fix everything, do you. ‘So sorry. Here’s the naughty boy that’s been causing all the trouble. Now if you don’t mind, please look the other way whilst I carry on Jim Moriarty's work.' Oh, I can see that going over well.”

“You’re forgetting that I still have his brother.” 

The doctor hadn’t forgotten that for a second. “Then what do you expect,” he growled, frustrated.

“I want to move my business elsewhere. Beyond the borders of this good country. In exchange for Sherlock and my over eager associate, Mycroft will lift the flag on my passport for these dates.” Sebastian typed a quick message into his phone and sent it. Immediately John's phone buzzed.

The doctor pulled it out of his pocket to find a message specifying the dates. “Why do you need me to get involved. You could have contacted Mycroft directly.” 

“You know what Jim used to call him, the Ice Man. It’s going to be up to you to convince him this is the best choice to make. We don’t want him trying to send a team in after Sherlock. That would end very badly, I promise you.” With that, Moran stood. “I'll just show myself out. No need to rise.”

John stood, his SIG clutched in his hand. He followed Moran onto the landing and watched him until the front door to 221 shut behind him. “Fuck!” He turned around and went back into the flat. “Sherlock, what do I do? What would you do?” Looking up, he saw the vision of his friend. “You’re not him! You’re completely useless! I don’t even know why you’re still here. I just want Sherlock back. Go away!” The vision shimmered, then faded, leaving John standing alone in the flat. 

John dreaded what he had to do, but he knew it had to be done swiftly. He called Mycroft. When the elder Holmes answered, all John said was, “Come get me. Sherlock’s been taken.”


	17. Chapter 17

As it turned out, John didn’t have to wait long. Mycroft had reinstalled surveillance equipment in the main living areas of the flat, so he already knew about Moran's visit.

Shortly after John made his way down to the pathway outside 221, a black sedan pulled up. He barely waited for it to stop before opening the door and climbing into the back seat where he found a clearly angry Mycroft on the phone.

“I don’t want to hear excuses!” Mycroft roared. “Put all of our resources on it. This is top priority until he is found. If he’s not found, you had best leave the country before I get my hands on you. You were meant to be watching him.” The last sentence had been delivered in an icy tone that made John shiver.

Mycroft rang off and shoved his phone in his pocket. After several calming breaths, he turned to face John. “Sebastian Moran.”

John nodded, understanding immediately that the flat had been bugged. “Yes.” He didn’t have time to be angry, he was glad he didn’t have to explain everything. “Don't you have a tracking device on that car. Two? Three?”

“I have a tracking device on my cars, but Moran had my driver use one of his. An unfortunately clever move on his part.” Mycroft held out his hand. “I need to see the photo, John.”

“You’re not going to like it,” John said as he dug his phone out of his pocket. “I know he’s had a lot worse, but...” John pulled up the photo.

Mycroft took the phone from his hand and peered at the photo, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I see. A head injury.” His fingers gripped the phone tightly, understanding John's concern. After a moment, he searched up the text that contained Moran's travel dates and forwarded it to himself, then he handed the phone back to John, having memorised the sending number. “We’ll try to get a location on the phone that sent the photo, but no doubt it was a burner.”

Unable to help himself, John blurted out. “Just do it. For once, don’t play games with your brother’s life. It’ll get the bastards out of the country anyway, so what does it matter?”

Mycroft didn’t answer for several long seconds. When he did, he sounded resigned. “Tell me, John. Do you think they would believe it if I agreed immediately? You know my reputation. What do you think would happen?”

John ignored the warning look he got from Sherlock’s spectre which had appeared in the front passenger seat.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft. At least try!” John's left hand balled into a fist and he fought hard not to let it swing.

Mycroft let out a sigh. “We will go to the Home Office. After a suitable amount of time during which you can ‘persuade' me to cater to Moran's demands, I will return you to Baker Street. You will tell Moran that he will be cleared for travel on the dates he requested, unimpeded, provided Sherlock is returned to me without further harm the night before the first day of travel.”

John, head shaking, disagreed. “He'll never agree to that. He won’t agree to returning Sherlock before you’ve cleared him to leave.”

“I think we both know he doesn’t intend to return him at all,” Mycroft replied grimly. “I'm trying to buy us time to locate and extract him before Moran does away with him. I'm endeavouring to tie Moran up in negotiations."

“So what are we really doing at the Home Office?” John asked, glancing at the vision of Sherlock and wishing it would disappear again.

Mycroft noted where John's glance fell and deduced why, but chose to ignore it. “We will be making plans, John. Plans within plans within plans. I have no intention of letting them leave this country and I certainly will do everything in my power to get Sherlock back alive and in one piece.”

Mycroft’s tone was full of determination. John could tell it was almost equal to his own. For now he could call Mycroft an ally, if not a friend. They were in this together.

 


	18. Chapter 18

John, having been returned to Baker Street by one of Mycroft’s cars, climbed the 17 steps to the flat. He halfway expected Moran to be waiting on him, but the flat was empty of anyone except the vision of Sherlock which now sported blood at its temple. John sighed and closed the door behind him, then sat in Sherlock’s chair so he could face the door. He was resolved not to let his guard down.

Some twenty minutes later, John’s phone rang. It was from a blocked number. When he answered it, he wasn’t surprised that the call was from Moran.

“Hello Doctor Watson. I trust you have good news for me,” Moran said in a cheerful voice.

“I have news, yes.” John squeezed his phone so tightly that his fingers ached. “But I refuse to share it until I have proof that Sherlock is alive.” It wasn’t anything that had been discussed with Mycroft, but John had to know. He had to have some reassurance.

Moran let out a great sigh. “How predictable. I suppose you’ll want to speak with him.”

“That would do,” John agreed. He held his breath as the sounds of movement came over the phone, followed by a grunt, then Moran's voice, muffled and indistinct.

“John,” came Sherlock’s voice over the connection. He sounded calm, but his voice was full of pain and weariness.

John’s heart skipped a beat. “Sherlock! Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I've been better. Moran and his men aren’t exactly the most friendly of individuals. I’ve got a few bumps and scrapes, but fortunately that’s all.”

John breathed a bit easier. “Can't you tell me something more? Help me find you.”

“I promise, John. I’m no more banged up than I was on the Cat Calumny case. Stop worrying...”

“I trust you’re satisfied, Doctor Watson. Your friend is alive and talking. Now report.”

John growled. “You can leave when you planned. But Sherlock has to be returned the night before you leave.”

“Mycroft must be joking,” Moran said, anger lacing his words.

In the background, John heard a thud and Sherlock cry out in pain. “I'll make you pay for that. Forget Mycroft. You’ll have to answer to me.”

Sherlock cried out again. “Think hard before you threaten me again. I can make Sherlock suffer for your words. Now be a good boy and tell Mycroft his terms are unacceptable.” With that, Moran rang off.

John didn’t immediately phone Mycroft. Instead, he tried to calm himself. It didn’t help that Sherlock’s words kept replaying in his mind on a loop. It took several minutes for John to realise that Sherlock had given him a clue. The reference to the Cat Calumny case had to mean something. He leapt to his feet and immediately dialled Mycroft. The moment Mycroft answered, John started in without explanation, too worked up to put his thoughts in order. “He gave me a hint, Mycroft. We have to search the entire area. Pull the case up on my blog and start looking. I’m on my way there myself.”

“John! Wait. What case? What are you talking about?” Mycroft asked, desperately needing to get the information from John.

“Cat Calumny. He’s being held somewhere in the same area.”

Mycroft pressed his fingers to his temple. “John, I beg you. Don’t go alone. Let me send someone to assist you.”

“I don’t trust them, Mycroft. I’d rather...”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. Do you trust him?”

John swallowed. “Of course.”

“Then I’ll send him along. Wait for him, John. If not for your own safety, then for Sherlock’s.” Mycroft couldn’t let anything happen to John. His brother would never forgive him, not after everything they had been through and clearly John wasn’t completely stable. Not yet. He’d be sending his own men in as well. He’d already pulled up John’s blog and sent the general location on to Anthea. A team was already gathering. Even knowing the general area where Sherlock was being held, the search would be nearly impossible. He made an instant decision. “I’ll meet you there myself where the original crime occurred.” 

“But you don’t do legwork,” John protested.

“I do when it’s my brother.”


	19. Chapter 19

Having begrudgingly decided to wait for Greg, John decided to search for the old case file on the Cat Calumny case. He searched through the haphazard stack of files in one corner of the living room. The files consisted of old notes and wall pinnings John had saved for use when writing up the cases for his blog. Eventually he found what he was looking for, covered in dust.

“You're finally thinking, John,” Sherlock’s shade said, breaking his silence and startling John.

Just as John started to snap an answer, Greg appeared in the door. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes.” John stood, the file clutched in his hand. He ignored the spectre and rushed out of the flat, almost running Greg down in the process.

Once they were on the move in the car, Greg glanced over at the folder. “What have you got?”

“Everything from the Cat Calumny case.” John flipped through the pages, hoping to find something of use.

Sherlock’s shade spoke into John’s ear from the back seat. “Look at the map. You’re overlooking the obvious.”

John searched through the papers until he came to the map Sherlock had had pinned on the wall. There were four locations circled on it. One of them had been crossed out. Another had obviously been stabbed viciously with a knife. It was where the prize-winning cat and kidnapped girl had both been found. Mycroft would no doubt be concentrating his efforts in that area.

“Think, John,” the vision urged in Sherlock’s baritone. 

John placed his finger on one of the locations. He remembered Sherlock saying it was owned by a dummy corporation whose roots could be traced back to a series of other dummy corporations. The same could be said of the other circled location on the map.

John bit his lip. There was something he was missing. What would Sherlock do?

“Look at the photo,” Sherlock’s shade urged.

John pulled out the phone and looked at the photo of Sherlock, trying to look beyond the man and his injuries for clues as to where Sherlock might be being held. It looked like a basement or an old bomb shelter. Googling the locations, he found one was a newer construction whilst the other dated back to the 1940's. Yes! He entered the address into Google Maps. “Greg, turn right!” he shouted.

Greg did so, then glanced at John. “Mind telling me why we just turned away from the search location?”

John looked over his shoulder and grinned at the vision of Sherlock. “Because they’re looking in the wrong place. I know where Sherlock is being held.”

Sherlock’s shade gave him an approving look.

Of course, Greg noticed. He wondered what he was doing, listening to John who was clearly still not entirely in his right mind. “Explain it to me before I turn this car around.”

John walked Greg through his reasoning, explaining about the photo and the dummy corporation that owned the site. “It would be too much of a coincidence for them to keep him at the old crime scene. Too dangerous for them. This is the only thing that makes sense.”

“Then I had best call Mycroft in for backup.”

“No!” John snapped. “They won’t be expecting us, not with Mycroft’s operation going. They’ll think they’re in the clear. We can take them by surprise.”

Greg wavered, his common sense at war with his need to take action. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel and sped up. “Tell me where we’re going. God, I must be an idiot. Mycroft is going to kill me.” He wasn’t entirely sure he was exaggerating. If things went wrong... Greg cut off that line of thinking. It wouldn’t do anyone any good.

John called out the turns as they came to them. One block away from their destination, he told Greg to park. “That's it, just ahead.” It looked like any other building in the area, old and dated. People came and went. It didn’t look like the type of place where a prisoner would be held.

“Are you sure about this, John?” Greg asked sceptically.

“Absolutely.” John got out of the car and stepped into the flow of people on the pathway. Greg got out and followed.

**Author's Note:**

> I read and treasure every single comment I receive, but I'm totally crap at responding to them. Please know that they fuel me. Thank you in advance.
> 
> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com) or @sherlockian4evr on Twitter.
> 
> Find out how my muse is doing at [My Other Tumblr](http://sherlockian4evr-status.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Visions on the Mists of the Soul"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825566) by [Drawn Lines (sherlockian4evr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/Drawn%20Lines)




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